No: After You, Jack Skellingtons

The lyrical musings of Kevin Mitchell, 28 April 2014 — 15 October 2014.


A Man For All Seasons

Blacked-out Rental Van by My Brain Hz

Clique-bated Breath

Downtrain Abby

Funeral For Abattoir Death Worker

Golda's Shoes
Gyroscopical Möbius Strippy-Whippy Thing

Introductory Ode to "The Remains of the Daytona 500"

Little-Missed Moffat (feat. Her Satin Prophets)
Looking For Clouseau

Modus Operandi Pandy
My Black Pair Of Drainpipes

No: After You, Jack Skellingtons

Ode to haiku response to @KTHopkins' “SHIT poem in The Sun”

Post His Tori
Predicitve Text

Schicklgruber's Russian Roulette Luger
Shooed Into Last Year's Trousers

Thar She Blows!
The Bombadier Hunter
The Muffled Titter That Ran Through The Courtroom
The Rochdale Minors' Flaming Galah

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Which Finder General?
Wreck Of The Old '97



Which Finder General?

There once was a girl named Katie
Who one day said: “Alright matey,
“Just you wait and see
“Who sits down to pee!”
Then proceeded to ‘spring-heel’ the gatey.

My father don’t like you
My brother don’t like you
My sister don’t like you
My mother don’t like you
But they’re an odd couple at the best of times
So come on: li’l Katie has noose for you
She’s going to jump that broomstick tonight

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The Bombadier Hunter

Been trying gates: did you see?
The e ‘twas inside of me.

You want to see me fry?
Better rescind the slates
Reg pared the greens
While the meat was by Ron

Stop forming a disorderly queue
And get back to work
You know, Charlie?
He’s not even the latest craze

Be the white whale of your time sailing a fine line?
Then maybe Rabid Rubber Rowbotham
Will pick-up on the head rhyme
One day
O one day
Get it right
Just once: give it to me
Just once: give it to me

Trial by Bill
Five were barred
Sign-on and die

Just below the crow’s nest’s a great place to spot ‘em
Hairy ducks
Anything you redux I redux better
Agger redux do-do past the post
And the toast and the tea

All the while the mellow marsh
Shed its skin with despondency
Raised a pint
And burned like a fire in
Burned like a fire in
Burned like a fire in Girobank

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Schicklgruber’s Russian Roulette Luger

‘Uncle’, I can never go home again 'cause I seem to have left an important part of my brain somewhere: somewhere in a field in Somerset.
Well, if that’s two intense for you. . .

Me, and Nelle makes three
Point one for you:
Set too for tea
Feeling like a grey earl
Excavating a bag of mummified pyramid
What teh folk were you thinking of?

Like Mallory Knox on Mother Heaven’s doorstep
Kinnock, knock, knocking knocks
The over-confident British Oxygen Company

As for offence; that depends on one’s opinion of stupidity
The big blue and the ocean floor
I never thought that I would be fighting fashion in SW3

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No: After You, Jack Skellingtons

Put my whole self in
Get fuck all out
Then think of Shanks’ pony
And leave myself in doubt
You monster-smash potatoes
Draw the holy roller blinds:
That’s what it’s all about

In deep thought wrestling with Virgil
Though for all the tea in China
His gold dust failed
To completely correct the cap size

So it’s back to my mug
S2 quod-biking leer
The extra-point being
There’s no T there
To rub her in India
Or bedevil Tasmaniacs
Leaving me a little haggard
Too much vit. C mewling
Midst my Satsuma night’s dream

Where did your tan go?
To the victor the spoils
To Vincent: the michael
Shorn of foreign clashes
A taste of honey?
Hives bring me out in rashes
Just tweet me your pie
And I’ll cut myself a segment
Saves running round in circles
Throw back my head and sing:

“Anion ion, anion ion
Annie, o Annie: sweet irony
Go get your gun; the Co Factor’s on
And the block-tackled shades
For our place in the sun”

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Wreck Of The Old ‘97

They gave him his orders at Millbank, né Vickers
Saying: “Tony, you're way behind time
This is not ‘38; this is 1997
You must put into Winston Spencer on time”

Well, he turned around and said to his cracked Scottish fireman:
“Shovel in a little more dole
And when we cross this Sugar Candy Mountain
We'll watch Bold ‘97 roll”

It's a mighty rough road from Thatcher to Cameron
And from Baghdad it’s a three-year grade
It was on that line that he lost his average
You see what a jump he made
Big rock!

They were goin' down that hill losin' 90 grand an hour
When G’s whistle broke into a scream
He was found in the wreck with his hand on the throttle
A-scalded to death by the steam

Then the telegram come to Washington city
And this is how it read:
“The brave engineer that run Bold ‘97
Is lying in Old Queen Street dead”

Now all you ladies ye take warning
From this time now and learn
Speak harsh words of your true loving husband
He will leave you and never return

It's a mighty rough road from Thatcher to Cameron
And from Baghdad it’s a three-year grade
It was on that line that he lost his average
You see what a jump he made

And when you pull into that station
Especially from Darkest Peru
O make sure you’ve well-packed your suitcase
As it’s a lot to bear blue: lonesome, sans you

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Modus Operandi Pandy

Out their Ladas step the snarks
Showing unclean heels; clog-dancing sparks
The empty shoo
The boneless doggie
Black-Mark Antony self-stabbed and groggy

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The Rochdale Minors’ Flaming Galah

Another masterful session
Trap sprung with self-bait
Once more nothing interesting came in the post
So it’s a back-to-bedded breakfast of
CBA on toast again

Red Beard
Zee Germans
V Bombers
Fairgrounds to arrest you
Coconuts too shy
Adjust the playlist and shuffle off this mortal coil

In Todd Browning’s version:
I got 99 problems but a flake ain’t one
Though I once got shocked by the currant in a bun
Yes, I have an idea of how long it will take
Get your arse in gear and foot off the brake

Political discourse or Ugandan discussions
I’ve dressed for them both without repercussions

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Thar She Blows!

From pillbox to last post
Play pass the parcel
Being an arsehole remains
Being an arsehole

Did your cat get the cream
Or is that too much Nivea?
Sunblock the shockjock
Play tattoos on tin Lydia

Just lost for words
Don’t open my mouth
Your jeans pooled with turds
Sweet refrains The South

Laverne & Shirley
Cooler than The Fonz
Welcome back kookie Kotter
Flowed Eddie’s despond

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Introductory Ode to "The Remains of the Daytona 500"

We are not men
We are devolved from at all round your way
Music plays from our pen
Into your hand-reared time of day
No massacre for you this year
Prime beef movers, salt and shakers
Tuckered profess MUN ARUCS
No Liddell Hart-shaped chicken nuggets dear
The faulty brush fell off your peace-pipe makers
And now your vacuum sucks

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Little-Missed Moffat (feat. Her Satin Prophets)

Bill y Benn wee’d on the flowering pot-men
Rowling innit:
That J. K. just isn’t funny anymore
One of the chosen few
With a wig on
False Mary Beards
Looking the part

What’s a poor boy got to do to get a choo-choo?
Sailing the high seas
I leaned over too far to get the number
Of your train of thought
Not so much unhappy
As chuffed to bits

Long John messed with the hangman’s daughter
Poured his silvery oil on her troubled waters
Weather ponds?
Wither sponds?
That one went down like the The Ibiza
More clubbing than Byron’s foot
On your Gregory Peck

"Who, me?"
"You're not even!"
"Doctor Who-the-fuck-are you"

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Shooed Into Last Year’s Trousers

The ghost of a twist contest
Mortie B. Vicar
A mortice kit
A mere task hat

The deceptionist at The Inn on the Veigle
Told me: “Plus ça change, plus c'est son la mum chose”
Crisis or clarity
Seeking parallelity
Diametrically opposed
To the thumbing stuck-up nose

The Frisch Princess of Bel End
Neither pound more
Nor penny less
In a fix; reach into your bag of tricks
Converging transpires
To be or not to be
Something of a return to Godsend
While the rank file out slowly

Shuffling to the Bo Diddley squat

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Looking For Clouseau

Murky Smurf
Them flies
Them flies
Them damn fl-eyes
I am not the f-all
Thus myths are borne

Espadrille sergeant
38DD tour
Nobody gets out
My good intentions
Pave the graveside

The square root of my self-division
Random jerks can spoil the way
Or make your day
Let’s not get physical

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Funeral For Abattoir Death Worker

3000 m
Set your mark
The steeple-chasers
Holy Islands in the Stream of Piss
King Al’s threads with his great itchy clock
Miserable Endcott-Lees of the Sourbutts
The Mad Muhdi stands in the dock

The most flavoured flavour
From Pathe News to Pearl & Dean
The Porky Pig scratchings in the sebaceous necklace
Post-modern quasi/cryptic anarcho-fascistic Keynesian situationist philosophy
Brazilian black-boxed contradiction in terms
Seething with tormented jism
Decked with feltching pompous hate

Stressed to spill
Spencer was no Marx
When hirsute passer-by extracted unsaintly Michael
From his cane
He swore they should “Get cancer!”

Remember kids: too much hickory dickery can land you in the dock
Next time around the revolution would not be tweeted
We’ll be growing beards and becoming conceited
Don’t believe the hyperspatial bypass

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Rock ‘n’ Roll: a mulatto bisexual transvestite phishing with click-bait
Amoebic assimilation at point of perpetual orgasm
From Stone’s Amusement Arcade to The Jolly Roger Pier
Uncredited and unconfirmed: the fat man with the strategically covered face
Slimy bullshit-stirring slag shit cunt
Monkey-dunked in a bucket of kumquats
Swiss family love dungeon
Shameless scandals bigger than the firmament
Death crash commandos’ Hackisacking of Rome
Crude, rude, testicular fortitude
Parks and recreation pogrom of hurting and fisting
The venom of the mangrove cat snake
Tosses of frustration line the barricades
The sounds of finger yoga: quavering hemi semi demi penes
The omni-tentacled glittering coalbunktopus
Shedrot shoballoth. Expectans semper te expectabo
Mind the Gap genes, Jack-of-all-Napes
Quincy Adams Wagstaff spitting Horse Feathers
A journey of a thousand piles beginning with a single crap
Mick Miller’s windy crossing on a Greyhound bus
Chunged through the mung bean throwing the scar seal some fish
Recently slain pedestrian laying in the rain
Newtown Bite-size Dwarfish Historians
Demand of unrelated business to direction from infant child
When they came to bill and coo o’er me
My invoice turned them blue
An equal amount of explanation in each tweet:
Do you know how many characters that’s going to take?
Striving influence learned to bear slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
I have nothing to declare except my Genesis album
The photos inside remind me of home

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Blacked-out Rental Van by My Brain Hz

Wisdom from the wise dome
Lies beyond the thunderbox and terrordrome.
Jasmine-scented odes and joys to bring
Down-nose gaze for the tyrant lizard king
Millions of faulty power chords bought on HP
Persistence in securing the future of your progeny
Assume the people would try to sell me
The pillaged remains of my own grandmother
If they could, in order to burn rubber
Further their personal, ego-driven, agenda
They can take their orthodox boorish faux-socially conscious passive-aggressive neurotypicracy and stick it up-
That’s a mighty bad suffixion you got there, son

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Ode to haiku response to @KTHopkins' “SHIT poem in The Sun”

When pressed on the matter of Becca Day
As a cause for celebration
It was found best to file it away
Red-taped by administration
Wholly molemen tunnelling deep
Seeking to mine a raw nerve
Only found the incessant pith
Enough to make grown men weep
With an extra sprinkling of verve
Was their rotary engine diff

PS – Reread with second taste in mind
Even found my glasses
But still it was not sugar refined
More the work of molasses
I could go on and on
On all cross and for naught
With similar good cheer
But I’ll ask this then be gone
Who is being shot for sport
Two months early this year?

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He made you
Made you one
God saves
God saves
He made you
Made you one
And if I provide the wool
He said he’d make me one too

Baa, baa, Papa!
Baa, baa, Mama!
Barbidul, Barbidet
Mini Barbabelle

Bar fly
Bar stool
Bar steward
Farmer Barleymow
Ten men went
Sheer carnage

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Clique-bated Breath

Armchair general’s in a cold war
Sat by two-star fridge
Mary’s at St. Mungo’s
She’s been cast out by a midge

How, owl? Howl!
Not what they seem
Who will rid me of these turbot and priest holes?
Go at a canter and bury

Teasing Pliny minds since 4/20
Clinical spinnaker
Coarse and retching
I try not to sing
It carries unfetching
Sheela’s nay gig
Pinnacle playing a suburban garden gazebo

The Dame of Shame in a mind-game blame flame
Spoof us teh, gadfly
The growler
To be transported with a haviour of vainglory
Experience taught you can’t beat a good skin

Body slick
O’er the water
Encircled chalk
Cheesey grin

Pleased to meet you?
Meet 2:
See me teeter on the precipice of veganism

Cattled morons
High nooned
Do not forsake me

It always works better written
Champagne breakfast for miss
Unsuited to pubic orifice

Camp town ladies
Crumb-bum slum mum’s hum
Wart – ooh!
Round checks
Redux back
Pour on
Waxen wane
Wank toff

Arcing swallows and wailing for a sout
Sat in arm hair armchair
Deep throat bloke
Joke guinea pig
In a Pokémon game
Old fuddy Buchan
Rather easy on the eye

The human body houses
Ten times more bacterial cells
Than human ones
Your life snot half
Five bugs you can catch
In the changing room

Dough – if you only had a clue
McKean to burn in Alan Whicker man
YMC waiting
What tea folk
Not I for coffee
Wolfram in my element

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Downtrain Abby

Dick Bartonshire
Van slowcoach
The Prisoner of Players No. 6
Not a freeman
Cut ‘n’ paste
I am kurious, Assang
Got me some ulcers!
Do write on. . .

Asked for passion
Got give Chip & Dale
Buddleia sought attention
Cult seethers of vinegar
Cup ‘n’ taste
One paunch death
Got my samosas?
Too right on!

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Predictive Text

Redneck rampage
Get yourself a fan page
Seventh day
Third age
Fare stage

Wall-to-wall carry-in
Hit the north, with Harry Ing
Excuse me

Bring along the fire bucket, scuttle and poker
Scuttle and poker
Don’t forget the poker!
Playing with a full deck of too many jokers
Driving Hillman Imps
Singing shammy, leather, polkas

What did Tweedle say?
Who was it Tweedy saw?
Up and down
Night and day
Nothing escapes
Maw and paw

Third call of GT
O, you little beauty
I like alike
Punch, bowl
Nothing to you

If you’re going to sink my battleship you need to know the password
Send for the class nerd
About whom we’ve all heard
Could it be something really quite absurd
(Think: “adrusbaeĉifuserevoi”)
Or simple, like “password”

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Post His Tori

Advise your parents
Nominate my gramme
He’s on it
He’s on it

Baby sin: The Club
The first rule - the thirst rules
His sonnet
His sonnet

Sixteen smiles hyper
Galleon Cyrus crews
Witch user
Witch user

Sidedraught constant depression
Type or injection?
Wit chooser
Wit chooser

Students united old coals
Great walls tumbling
Came hither
Came hither

No skin in my shed
Rake progressed bold step

My quest for brome
Cornwallis surrendered

Court in the act - all Nico too
Car wienot men

Soft parade set tracked who?
December’s children

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Gyroscopical Möbius Strippy-Whippy Thing

Chairs and shears
Tart and fettered
The lying-faced tup-tup
Nay bits thaw you
Red cap
The chaffing inch
Don’t forget it!

Mental red carpet walk
Up inspiral staircase
Who are the mystery cats?
Takes me back
Chopstick dexterity
Shatter the die
Shat on the pitch

You don’t want to hear my voice
Even I hate the sound of it
Wailing violins resined with bile

Spit once you’ve rinsed
Though I’m no dentist
Or sorcerer’s apprentice
Wealden appliers
Unheavenly choirs
Yoke inane Glencoe friars

You turn the high key
I’ll turn the low key
And we’ll be o’er Welling
In time for the teasmaid

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The Muffled Titter That Ran Through The Courtroom

I’m not half chavvy
Maybe un-tech savvy
Don’t wear too much glitter
Don’t read too much Twitter
A bit o’ your wit
Backed-up from the lavvy
While I’m tucked up in bed
After brushing out the litter

I’ve never ducked my luck
With Dan, Buck or Flash
Never snorted Ajax
Or made a server crash
I once caught a crab
Not from messing with an oar
I swear it was a toilet
The Friary: ground floor

Hey, Presto!
We want your magic back
Bare knees
Tight helmet
Clinging on the back
Sound the alarm
While the big wheel turns
Up and down the A3
Trying to keep calm

Talk about plops, spew and ick
NY, Paris, Munich
You’ll have to wait
Pal A’s enough
O Dion & The Belmonts take note
Prisoners of Jenga
Towers of fable
All she: by rote

I don’t wear Pritt Stick
Histrionic sonics?
Phonetically bucolic
I love it in the country
Lots of birds
A few bees
And somewhere by design
There’s a needle-pulling Freddie

Not cracked the Green Cross Code
But heard a few odd odes
So when I get mown down
Cut like glass wearing a frown
I try to lighten up the mood
Just like posing for nudes
Except done in Word
Wearing a 'Kev, la' nightgown

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A Man For All Seasons

Sage peels the onion
The perfect accompaniment to any meat

With garlic
Lemon, or Apple
Perfect for roasts

Tasty recipe for that special occasion
Chestnut & Cranberry
Sausagemeat & Thyme
Perfect with any roast meat

It won’t be Christmas any more

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Is your mother truly proud of you?
The things you see
All that you do
When you suckled at her teat
Did she envisage this?

Your friends, too
What of their thoughts
From whence sweetness and light shines
Compared to darkest truth?
Peer they from which side of your psyche’s sewer grate?

Harassed workplace
Resentment builds the well
Tell a joke: die inside
Existential cries seize you
Echo, beach
Fart away in your own time
Zoned: megabusted

“Bitter? Not I,” you lie
Day by day
Mirror image contorts to mask the strain
Insecurity lurks over your shoulder
Stalks your every move

The needle in your heart
Push a little deeper
Fear its freedom from your flesh
Still you slowly bleed way, drop by drop
The goodness draining from your soul
Fetch a goblet to contain
Mop up your mortal remains

Does it turn you on?
Flick the switch
Flagellatory masturbation
Cheeks flush
All in the good cause you know best

Unable to resist
Trapped inside the terror coffin of your mind
Screams reverberate for thee alone
Self-felled in the forest of life as no-one hears

Don’t think of it
Forget all you read
Try as you’re smitten with foetid desire
Have a nice day in spite
Then sleep tight


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My Black Pair Of Drainpipes

Climbed up my own family tree
To eat the peach of clarity
Dropped a stone and from it grew
The main course for the me and you

Don’t like my jeans
Think they change with the weather
Well I’m not wearing yours
There: creased
Forever and ever

Let me take you down
I’m coming to
And it’s all very real
MF First XI bats
You’re fielding forever
F’in’ ‘ell, eh!
Carry on. . .

Silk purse
Silk Road
Sow’s ear
Heavy load
Wear the pearls
Drink the wine
Get the chills
Float in brine

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Golda’s Shoes

I asked of the wife: “Yitzhak Rabin?”
She replied: “No, he’s resigned”
And so Menachem begins

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Return to The Splanchnic Verses

This page © Kevin Mitchell, 2014.